Among adults returning to their hometowns to kick off the holiday season, children darting through the hallways without a care for whom they might collide with if they didn’t watch where they were going, and uniformed employees struggling in vain to maintain order within the station, it was clear beyond a shadow of a doubt that the train was bursting at the seams with people.

Julien should have known better.

It was a shame, really. His friends always teased him for being too chaotic, saying that since he never planned anything ahead of time, it was no surprise when things didn’t go his way.

This time, Julien had done everything right: he had informed his family that he’d be spending Christmas with them, and instead of risking taking the train on Christmas Eve itself and finding no seats available when he showed up to buy tickets, he’d gone on the 23rd.

It was a perfect plan! After all, who in their right mind would make a transfer from Lyon to some practically unknown Alpine village so close to Christmas Eve? According to his logic, the proactive types would have hit the roads and rails at least a week earlier, and those like him who were always late for everything? Well, they probably wouldn’t even set foot on the platform until the 24th.

Unfortunately for Julien, and his irreverent faith in human nature, most people didn’t have jobs that allowed them to take off weeks in advance. Thus, idiot or not, it seemed there were more passengers on the train than soldiers in an army.

“Excuse me, is this the way through?” As he squeezed his way through the train cars, carefully trying not to block the way further or bang his suitcase against the walls, Julien apologized to every living soul he encountered. “Ah, ma’am, watch your foot. Sorry, coming through.”

Seats weren’t assigned, and the last official he’d spoken to before boarding had specifically told him to squeeze in wherever he could. The staff, it seemed, was far too overwhelmed to care about the specific resting places of each passenger's rear end.

So Julien moved through each compartment, one by one, until he finally found one with only a single man seated inside.

“Hello there, mind if I sit here? All the other seats are taken.” Before the stranger could even respond, Julien was already hauling in his suitcase. “Can you believe everyone had the same idea to leave today? I started from the car closest to the locomotive and must’ve walked at least a kilometer to get here.”

“This train doesn’t have more than twelve cars,” the other passenger replied matter-of-factly, as though stating an indisputable fact. “It’s impossible that you walked even half a kilometer from the locomotive to here.”

Julien looked at him curiously. Surely, he hadn’t taken his comment literally? Obviously, he’d exaggerated on purpose, for effect.

“Well, leagues or not,” Julien continued with an amused smile, using the chance to stow his suitcase in the designated space, “my legs are killing me from all the walking.”

The stranger didn’t respond, nor did he so much as nod to acknowledge that he’d heard. Instead, he returned to the book Julien’s arrival had interrupted.

So Julien, out of all the possible outcomes, had ended up sitting with the only solitary and introverted passenger in the car, huh? Well, he could live with that. He didn’t need a chatty companion anyway; he could entertain himself once the train started moving again.

Julien sat across from the other passenger. He had brought reading material of his own, but in his last-minute packing rush, it had probably ended up buried at the bottom of his suitcase, somewhere between his everyday shirts and his underwear.

And Julien wasn’t about to dig through his underthings in front of a stranger. Not without an invitation, at least.

Reading thus off the table, and unable to enjoy the scenic views the large window would later offer, Julien decided to distract himself with the bag of pastries he’d bought just before boarding.

Knowing he’d bought enough to share with his family and still have leftovers for himself during the trip, Julien pulled out a brioche. But before taking his first bite, he paused as something came to mind.

“What terrible manners,” he scolded himself. Offering the same piece of brioche to the other passenger, he asked, “Would you like some? I’ve got plenty to share.”

The man gave him a withering look over his glasses, as if what was being offered was a stale roll that had been semi-crushed in a suitcase for three days.

“I don’t eat sweets,” he replied solemnly, though he then seemed to recall his own upbringing and added, “But thank you.”

He then returned to his book, intent on pretending the interaction had never occurred.

This man was strange; he seemed hostile, though not in a threatening way. Julien liked him already, despite the pastry rejection. Unoffended, Julien leaned back slightly in his seat and began eating his share of the sweets.

Still lacking any form of distraction, and quickly growing bored of counting the people rushing onto the platform, he settled for observing the individual in front of him more closely.

With his glasses perched high on his nose, a freshly pressed gray suit, and black hair slicked back immaculately, the man looked every bit the intellectual. Something Julien found quite attractive.

“What now?” the passenger asked, catching Julien staring at him. He looked irritated, clearly unable to read in peace.

And with that, Julien’s resolve not to bother someone who clearly didn’t want to be disturbed dissolved completely. He’d managed three and a half minutes of silence—a personal record, really.

“What are you reading?”

“A book.”

“I figured, with the cover and all. Though now that I think about it, I’ve been to antique book fairs where I’ve found real gems of literature, even ones missing their spines—”

“It’s a novel by Voltaire,” the stranger interrupted, perhaps to contribute to the conversation or, better yet, to end it. “Candide, it’s called.”

“Oh, I haven’t heard of it. What’s it about?”

“I couldn’t tell you. For some reason, I can’t get past the first ten pages.”

“That’s more common than you think. Maybe the beginning doesn’t grab you, or you’re not in the mood to read right now.” Julien noticed the brief grimace of displeasure on the other man’s face but continued as if nothing had happened. “Take it from me; I know quite a bit about literature. I even write for a living.”

“Oh, do you?” the passenger asked without a hint of curiosity.

“I write regularly for a local paper in Lyon. My name is Julien, by the way. I don’t think I mentioned that.”

“Opinion pieces, perhaps?” the man guessed, deliberately ignoring the introduction. “You seem like someone who has a lot to say.”

“Not at all. I mean, I do have plenty to say, but I doubt the public would care to hear it,” Julien replied with a mix of modesty and a touch of pride in his profession. “No, I write essays and poetry on various current topics. I also do art reviews occasionally.”

“That explains a lot,” the man said, though it was unclear whether he was referring to Julien’s personality or something specific he’d said. Julien wasn’t sure, but now that he’d managed to get the quiet stranger involved in the conversation, he wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

“What do you do?”

“I also write for the press, though nothing like the artistic fluff you mentioned.”

“Oh? Then what do you write about?” Julien asked with genuine curiosity, apparently unfazed by the man’s dismissiveness of his work, taking it as a matter of personal taste rather than malice. “What’s your name? I might have read some of your articles.”

“I highly doubt that. I cover the political section,” he said, as if assuming no one interested in the arts would bother picking up a newspaper for something more pragmatic. “My name is Francis Thierry, from Le Gaulois.”

Hearing the name of the renowned Parisian newspaper—and more importantly, the name of the journalist in question—Julien was so startled he dropped his brioche onto the floor. Immediately apologizing for his clumsiness, he picked up the pastry and, without a second thought, returned it to his bag with the rest of the sweets.

When Julien glanced back at Francis, he was met with a look of disapproval. He couldn’t tell if it was for having dropped the pastry or for contaminating the rest of the bag without a care.

“So, you’ve read my work, then?” Francis ventured, perceptive as ever.

“Excuse me, but are you the Francis Thierry who once called the Church—clergy as a whole—‘the state’s leeches’?”

Francis frowned, thoughtful.

“I don’t remember the exact phrasing, but I do advocate for a separation of powers. The Church is better kept at a distance.”

“And you’re the one who said trusting a German is like handing a knife to a thief and inviting them to kill you while they rob you?”

“I wouldn’t say all of them are like that, but with Alsace-Lorraine still fresh, you can’t blame me for being cautious.”

“And aren’t you also the one who’s spent the last three years criticizing my poetry? The one who said, and I quote, ‘those who take pleasure in this kind of writing are weak-minded individuals who have lost all sense of reality’?”

This time, it was Francis’s turn to be surprised.

“I never—” he began, but was swiftly interrupted.

“Oh, how silly of me! I forgot to introduce myself properly.” Julien smiled, a smile that conveyed not happiness but a triumphant gotcha! not exactly in the friendly sense. “Julien Bousquet, from Le Progrès. And, unlike you, I’m absolutely sure that you’ve read my work.”

Oh, he had definitely read it! Francis’s face changed the moment he heard Julien’s full name and the newspaper he wrote for! Gone was the stoic mask he had been hiding behind since Julien arrived, quickly replaced by something very close to panic.

Wait a minute, could it be that someone so ruthless in their written expression was actually afraid of facing an author they considered a professional rival?

“Um… Maybe I should…” Francis began again.

A bundle of nerves, Francis stood up. Perhaps he meant to briefly leave the compartment to recover from the shock. Or maybe his intention was to find a free car to hide in for the rest of the journey.

In any case, whether he planned to leave or not, neither option came to fruition. For, as if it were a sign from the heavens, just a moment after Francis had stood up, he collapsed back into his seat as soon as the train started moving.

No more passengers would board. And with the doors now closed, it was clear that both of them would have to spend the next few hours sharing that same space.